


Ropes Bound Tight

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25355278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "He groans. Rolls tired and aching shoulders as best he can, tries to find a halfway comfortable position to hold them in. tries to ignore how pointless an endeavour it is. "Jaskier makes the mistake of trusting the wrong welcoming strangers, leading to a less than comfortable evening.At least he has time to reflect on the mistake, left bound beneath the stars, waiting for rescue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 272





	Ropes Bound Tight

It has been… three hours?

Has it? He isn’t really sure anymore. He isn’t sure if he cares anymore.

He groans. Rolls tired and aching shoulders as best he can, tries to find a halfway comfortable position to hold them in. tries to ignore how pointless an endeavour that is. 

He twists, does his best to flex bound hands. There’s dirt under his fingernails. Thick, gritty dirt. It’s almost unavoidable, given his lifestyle. Normally it’s nothing, annoying but ignorable. Unimportant.

But he finds himself focusing on it now. Eyes drawn to the dark lines below his nails. Staring at the dirt. The mud and clay and muck.

He thinks he can feel it, each speck, like a rock, sharp and piercing below his nail, scratching into his flesh.

His hands are rubbed raw, rough rope proving unkind to delicate skin. Blood slowly trickles down, soaking into an already ruined shirt. It’s cold, sticky, makes rough cloth cling to his skin, wrap round his arm, glued on, uncomfortable and annoying. 

It has been… four hours?

No. Surely not.

Maybe… maybe it has been. It has been a while, long enough that the sun has begun to dip low in the sky, late evening light slowly starting to shift from warm yellows to a cold and clammy grey. Not yet gone, but getting there.

Getting late.

He sighs. Tired and heavy. Feels the pull of muscles, struggling to move damaged lungs.

Gods, really what does it matter how long it has been?

He won’t come.

He won’t.

If he does, he’s an idiot.

It is so obviously a trap.

He won’t come.

A rasping breath. Gods, why does his chest feel like that?

How long has he been here?

It doesn’t matter. He won’t come.

He had better not come.

Better for only one of them to die.

No reason they both need to.

No damn reason at all.

This was all his own darn fault for being a trusting fool anyway.

Thinking people are better than they are, more understanding. Open, to different ways of life, different people.

Thinking old prejudices had fallen to the wayside, buried beneath new glories… Gods, he had been a trusting fool.

A trusting fool who had taken warm smiles and friendly conversation at face value, not seeing the layers that hid below. Hadn’t expected the bloody blow to the head, sharp and cracking. Hadn’t expected the thick ropes, coiled around wrists, chest, legs, tight and twisting. Gag shoved between his lips, rough and heavy.

Gods, it was his own fault. He had grown… comfortable, relaxed. Started to feel too safe on unwatched roads, fear falling to the wayside.

And now here he is sat, coiled beneath a tree. A messy, obvious trap, he is unsure how exactly they expect anyone to be fooled by such a display, let alone a Witcher.

Still unsure of what the point of it all is, why bother with the pretences, why leave him alive at all?

Surely this game would work just as well with a corpse, he doesn’t see how leaving a dead body tied to a tree would be any less convincing,

… if it takes Geralt long enough to return that may be what he finds regardless of initial intent.

How long…

it doesn’t matter.

It’s getting cold now, as the sun slips further beneath the edges of his world. He feels a chill run along his spine, body twitching in response.

His eyes flick up to the greying sky, picking out the scattering of stars, just starting to shine through.

He almost wonders if that would be better, slipping away, here and now beneath an open sky, no bloodshed, little pain…

Save either of them from the experience of watching the other die…

He shakes his head.

Gods, it’s a depressing thought. Unpleasant and sour.

No.

He will not just let go here, lay down and give up his life. He shifts again, tugging on bounds, knowing its hopeless, but the flair of anger in his veins pushing him on regardless. 

He huffs. Kicks out, focused once more on the ropes binding him.

Bruised and bloody hands twisting in their confines, trying to work free stubborn knots.

Or perhaps just become slick enough to slip free… ignoring the nature of what lubricated their path.

His bones click, aching painfully, he offers a pained hiss, but keeps twisting.

And then…

Something pops.

His vision whites out, a burning sharp pain, tears instantly prickling in his eyes. He gags, chokes falling silent against the wadded cloth stuffed between his lips.

Does his best to suck down a desperate breath. and then another, and another.

Slowly stop his jackhammering heartbeat, regain his vision, his breath, his mind.

He can’t stop a sobbing whimper, can’t resist giving the hand a testing shift, turning it gently, feeling the bones shift…

Fuck. 

He gulps. Feels hot tears prickling in his eyes, a tremble running up his arm.

He groans, head thumps back against the tree behind him. Fuck, he just wants…

A break. A nap.

The chance to trust friendly strangers and be correct in doing so.

He just wants… to be safe and warm and…

A scream, high and sharp and pained startles him from his thoughts. Head snapping up, world back in focus, scanning the darkness for… anything.

He doesn’t have to wait long, soon hearing another scream.

It was distant, but still close enough to be uncomfortable.

Another cry, followed by a crack, something snaps, sharp and unnatural.

And then... silence.

He strains, head tilted, listening, but hears nothing.

And then…

The snap of dead wood, crushed beneath heavy footsteps. Footsteps that were steadily closer.

A wave of panic falls over him, he twists, desperate, feels his damaged hand shift, feels it move in its bonds.

Tries not to panic when the move achieves nothing.

Listens to the approaching footsteps, quick and panicked.

A man busts free from the woods, bloodied, face half caved in.

He screams. As best he can with a thick gag filling his mouth.

The man’s glazed unseeing eyes flick over the bards huddled form. Face lacking any registration of the sight. The man stumbles past, carried forward on uneven feet, soon disappearing back into the darkness.

He gulps, curls in on himself as much as he could, tries once again to tug is hand free.

Tries not to panic. Not to get distracted by the sound of his heart rushing through his ears.

More footsteps, controlled and heavy.

Gods does he try not to panic, huffs, twisting, turning, praying the ropes would give.

Eyes land on a figure, a silhouette, figure stood out against the night.

He sucks in a deep breath, and _yanks._

Feels a hand slip free of its ropes. Burning tears springing up in the corner of his eyes. A cut off cry tearing itself free from his throat

The figure jolts forward at the sound, a terrifyingly quick movement.

He ducks, as much as he can. Throws his free hand over his head. Tries not to hyperventilate. Fuck. Please just let them pass him by. Leave him be.

A jagged movement, feet scraping against the ground. A voice rings out rings out from the darkness, “Jaskier…”

He lets the arm drop, slowly, careful. Takes another look at the figure, the silhouette, sharp sword glinting in the moon light, flashes of white hair, stained and darkened with blood. 

“Jaskier.”

He sniffs, does his best to straighten back up,

Geralt approaches slowly, like he expects Jaskier to be spooked once again.

The Witcher need not worry. He is no longer afraid. He takes no fear from the sharp, piercing black eyes, budging black veins, thick blood and grime coating the man’s body.

No, he has no fear, only relief.

Geralt bends down, still slow and careful, gently slicing through his binds, taking care not to nick Jaskier in the process.

He feels them fall aside. Rolls his shoulders, feels his bones click and shift, readjust and figure themselves out.

Thick fingers prise free the gag from his mouth, feels it slide off his tongue, rough and dry.

Geralt’s hands trail through his hair, checking for damage, fingers finding the cut on his brow, the gash hidden by his hair…

He coughs, shifts, hand coming up to cling to Geralt’s arm, manages to stumble out the words, “-‘m okay.”

Geralt simply grunts in response, seemingly unconvinced.

He groans, rests his tired head against Geralt’s arm, swallows, feeling moisture slowly return to his mouth, croaks out, “really, Geralt, I’m fine.”

Geralt sighs, he feels the breath, hot and heavy against his hair, feels Geralt huff out another breath before slowly pulling back.

Grunts out a question, “What happened?”

At least he assumes it’s a question, despite not sounding like it.

He groans, shifts his neck, feels it crack, trying to think of an answer,

“I… encountered some less than friendly gentlemen who… took offence to certain aspects of your… work.”

Geralt snorts, helping him to unsteady feet, “took offence to my existence you mean.”

“Yes, well- either way, I believe they wanted to meet you.”

“We met.”

He nods, remembers the man with half his face caved in, a shiver running up his spine, “Right. Good.” He sighs, suddenly heavy and tired, head tipped back to stare up at the stars, “good.”

Geralt huffs again, hand resting heavy on Jaskier’s shoulder, a comforting weight, “are you okay Jaskier?”

He snorts, shrugs, is he okay? He supposes so, except for his hand, throbbing at his side, his head, beating and heavy. He hums, murmurs out, “I’m still not sure why they bothered leaving me alive at all.”

Geralt grunts, “Insurance.”

“What?”

“Insurance, tried to use you as a bargaining tool when I caught up with them.”

He snorts, “I’m guessing that didn’t work out for them.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“…good.”

Geralt hums, offering a small smile, “good.”

He smiles back, sighs, feeling exhaustion settle within him. “Can we… go yet?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, considering, “you’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, I swear.”

Geralt nods again, “good, I… good. I’m… glad to hear it.”

He hums at that, raises a questioning eyebrow, “hmm… were you worried about me?”

Geralt shifts, “I were gone, I… smelt blood, there was reason to be concerned.”

He can’t stop the wide smile from spreading over his face at that, “you _were_ worried!”

Geralt snorts, offers a slight shake of the head, “not that worried, don’t get too excited.”

He hums in response, still smiling, “you worry about me.”

A heavy sigh, “yes, Jaskier, I worry about you.” Geralt pauses, sighs when Jaskier’s smile grows larger at the admission, “are you ready to go yet?”

He nods, god only knows he is ready to go. Let’s Geralt curl an arm around him, tug him forward on uneasy feet.

As they walk, he finds his gaze drifting upwards once more, staring into the stars, losing himself in the vastness.

His eyes flick over to Geralt, murmuring out the words, “I’m glad you came,” quiet, almost silent, a whisper ghosting across the man’s skin.

Geralt huffs, shifts to take more of Jaskier’s weight, offering no response.

Not that he needs one, he sees the soft hint of a smile playing at the man’s lips, the light crinkle around the eyes, he knows Geralt heard the words, that he understands.

That, in itself is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> -thanks for reading-


End file.
